The Picture of Dorian Gray

It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own.

Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and had draped the purple-and-gold pall in front of it as a curtain.

Suddenly we find that we are no longer the actors, but the spectators of the play. Or rather we are both. We watch ourselves, and the mere wonder of the spectacle enthralls us.

He lives the poetry that he cannot write.

But the bravest man among us is afraid of himself.